


In Your Orbit

by hibiscus_tea



Series: making the most of the night [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: "Platonic" Heat Sharing, Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Coming Untouched, Crying During Sex, Is that a thing, Knotting, Let's Fuck to Save the Universe, Light fisting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mirror Sex, No bonding, Omega Keith (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Porn With Plot, Service Top Shiro, also, and lots of feelings, just a little bit of plot, seems legit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibiscus_tea/pseuds/hibiscus_tea
Summary: As a critical rebel uprising approaches, Keith's sudden heat promises to ruin Voltron's plans of attack against the Galra. With only days until Voltron is set to lead the rebels to victory, Shiro has to make a choice: help Keith through his heat and risk the exposure of long-hidden feelings, or risk the failure of their mission.Or: Shiro and Keith Fuck to Save the Universe___It doesn’t fully register, at first. His whole body stops, and he stands there with his mouth parted around an unknown syllable. For a strange span of seconds, Keith stares at him with that little furrow in his brow, waiting.And then it really hits. And it’s dizzying.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted the middle of this AU last week, and I figured I would turn it into a little series. So, first thing's first:

They’re fresh off a battle, trailing out of their lion’s hangers, helmets dangling from stiff fingers. There’s a cut above Hunk’s left eyebrow where a Galra soldier had knocked him across the face with the butt of a blaster. Lance’s neck has a semi-permanent crick in it from holding position over his sniper rifle. Pidge has half a limp from being crouched halfway inside a control panel for an hour, and Keith is dripping sweat from fighting off a whole section of Galra, who had cut him off from the group - largely due to tactical error on Shiro’s part - and cornered him in a supply hangar.

 

They trudge through the castle together, and Pidge’s legs eventually give out in the entrance to the debriefing room. For dramatic effect, she sprawls out on the floor like a starfish. Following her example,  Lance and Hunk proceed to sink to the floor, and pull each other into a sweaty hug, sharing the weight of the past three vargas.

 

A little separate from the group, Keith sets his helmet down on the back of the sofa. Shiro follows him over.

 

“Keith,” he says, and sets a hand on the shoulder of the flight suit. He opens his mouth to say something. Something like _you did really well out there_ , because how does one soldier apologise to another for something as clinical as tactical error? When you both know you’ll give everything you have to the cause. When you both know you’re in it to the end.

 

So, Keith looks at him, face shining with sweat. And Shiro opens his mouth, takes a breath, and he says: “ _Oh_.”

 

It doesn’t fully register, at first. His whole body stops, and he stands there with his mouth parted around an unknown syllable. For a strange span of seconds, Keith stares at him with that little furrow in his brow, waiting.

 

And then it really hits. And it’s _dizzying_.

 

“Oh,” Shiro says again, and he stares at his hand on Keith’s shoulder. His eyes flicker over the half-bare line of Keith’s neck.

 

“Shiro?” That’s real concern in Keith’s voice, still rough at the edges from the haze of battle.

 

“Um,” says Shiro. He breathes, and it’s like he can _taste_ it. God, what is he doing?

 

He loosens his hold on Keith’s shoulder, flexing his fingers like he can shake out the ache from his knuckles.

 

“Are you okay?” comes Pidge’s half-concerned voice from where she’s flat on the floor. She sounds like she’d rather be asleep.

 

“I need a minute,” says Shiro, and then he turns on his heel and gets himself out of that room.

 

*

 

There’s a knock on his door, and Hunk peeks his head around cautiously.

 

“Heyyy, Shiro,” he says, shuffling into the room with a hand scratching the back of his neck. “Are you, like. Okay?”

 

Shiro pauses his push-ups, and stares at the ground for a moment. “I’m fine,” he says. “You can tell the others not to worry.”

 

“Right,” says Hunk, and Shiro picks up the rhythm again. “It’s just that you were acting _super_ weird back there, and we weren’t sure if you picked up some kind of alien virus, or-?”

 

The push-ups aren’t doing much as a distraction, so Shiro sighs, and gets to his feet. “No virus, Hunk,” he says.

 

“So…?” prompts Hunk.

 

Shiro rubs at his forehead, eyes screwed shut. “Did- really? Did- did no one else notice?”

 

He finally looks at Hunk, feeling a little desperate.

 

“Shiro, you’re kinda freaking me out,” says Hunk, fingers curling anxiously near his bayard. “You and Keith were looking at each other and then you started breathing all weird, and you-” The realisation breaks across his face. “Wait, _Keith_?”

 

Helplessly, Shiro rubs at the back of his undercut.

 

“Is that what-? I mean I _thought_ I smelled something, but I’m a beta, so I’m not used to- but _Keith_? I didn’t even know he had heats! Has he always had them? Did he-”

 

“Hunk.” Shiro stops him with a look, and some of the exhaustion must show through, because Hunk looks chastised.

 

“Sorry,” he says.

 

A pause.

 

“But _did_ you know?”

 

“ _Hunk_.” Shiro grits his teeth. He keeps getting flashes of it, like something tangible at the back of his throat. The bloom of a heat-scent on his tongue. “He was on suppressants,” he says finally, “back on Earth. They cover three months, but they take a while to wear off if the dosage is maintained over a long enough period of time.”

 

He can’t help but go clinical. Omega heat-cycles are eight grade biology and filled in boxes on a multiple choice test. Keith is-

 

Well.

 

“Huh,” says Hunk. There’s silence for a moment while the information settles in. “Do you think he knows?”

 

Shiro’s brow furrows. “What?”

 

“Oh, well I mean Keith isn’t super observant when it comes to stuff like this. Remember when he walked around with a stab wound in his shoulder for like an hour because he pretty much just totally forgot about it? And Lance pointed out the blood on the couch and everyone had a mini freak out, but Keith couldn’t figure out why everyone thought it was such a big deal?”

 

Shiro remembers it a little too well. He sighs at the wall.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

“So, Keith probably hasn’t even realised that he’s going into heat,” says Hunk. He bounces on the balls of his feet. “Man, he is gonna be _so_ pissed when he realises.”

 

“Someone is going to have to tell him,” says Shiro.

 

There’s a pause. They look at each other.

 

Sometimes, being the leader has it’s perks.

 

“Fine,” sighs Hunk, “I’ll do it.” He frowns. “But you owe me, dude.”

 

Shiro quirks his brow, arms crossed.

 

“Seriously,” says Hunk, because Shiro may be the leader, but he knows a sacrifice when he sees one. “You owe me.”

 

“Fine,” sighs Shiro, “I owe you.”

 

Hunk fixes him with a look that says _you'd better stick to that._

 

Shiro’s arms tighten where they’re crossed over his chest.

 

Just as Hunk disappears around the doorframe, his face curls into a too-knowing kind of grin. “Have fun with those push-ups, man.”

 

The door slides shut, and Shiro puts his head in his hand.

 

*

 

He throws himself into work. Out of his paladin armour, and in what counts as civilian clothes around here, he runs through their coordinates for the next few days. Distress signals have been pinging from one particular galaxy, near two recently-liberated planets. Intel from the Blades - though unspecific - points to disturbances in high-level Galra prisons in the vicinity.

 

It all points to rebel activity, and planetary uprisings against Galra occupation. If people are organising rebellions of their own volition, it means that hope is spreading, and Voltron needs to be there to help. If they can somehow contact these planets without alerting the Galra to Voltron’s presence in the area, they’ll be able to offer support to rebel forces-

 

“Shiro?”

 

Keith stands in the doorway, looking a little better. His hair isn’t stuck to his forehead with sweat, but he’s in his training clothes, and he looks like he’s gone a few rounds with the gladiators.

 

They all have their ways of winding down after a battle like that, and Keith’s is more fighting. It’s the controlled environment - like a replay where he can fix his mistakes. Adjust his footing. Parry faster. Strategize, instead of sinking his teeth into the adrenaline of the moment. He’s getting better every day.

 

“Keith, hey” says Shiro, hit with the physical warmth of admiration for the man in front of him. “Feeling better?”

 

Keith isn’t completely at ease, but there is the quirk of a smile. “Yeah,” he says. And then: “Hunk talked to me.”

 

“Ah,” says Shiro. “Yes. Sorry about-” he clears his throat, “earlier.”

 

The scent is still there, but much fainter now, with Keith less flushed and on the opposite side of the room.

 

“No,” says Keith, surprisingly earnest. “Don’t be. I should have realised sooner. I just haven’t had it in so long, it didn’t even occur to me.”

 

Seeing Keith nervous is always a little strange. It doesn’t sit comfortably on his shoulders, and he’s something close to adorable, standing there with his fingers curled around the handle of his bayard like he’ll be able to physically fight off the feeling.

 

“We’ve all got a lot on our minds,” says Shiro. He hasn’t even thought about the possibility of a rut in ages. A year in a Galra gladiator pit probably knocked it out of him.

 

“Yeah,” says Keith. “I talked to Coran. He says he knows someone in the Estir system who could manufacture something like my old suppressants, but it won’t be soon enough, and we don’t have the facilities in the castle.” He looks down at his shoes. The tips of his ears are pink.

 

Shiro frowns. “Are you sure that’s safe? The wrong kind of suppressants could-”

 

“It’s fine,” says Keith, jaw tight. “We don't have to worry about that right now, anyway.”

 

Always stubborn, but- “You’re right,” nods Shiro. He turns back to his coordinates. “Realistically, we might be able to postpone our attack for three, maybe four days, but that depends on how soon we can establish contact with the rebel groups, and the concentration of Galra forces in the area.” He bites at the inside of his cheek in thought. “It could be up to five days. Potentially.”

 

“We can’t risk five days,” says Keith, something brewing in his eyes that Shiro doesn’t like the look of. “We can’t even risk four. Be practical.”

 

“I _am_ being practical,” says Shiro, turning to him. “Our intel from the Blades may not be detailed, but it is enough to tell that there are at least two major Garla ships stationed in the sector. Even organised rebel groups - which these are _not_ \- wouldn’t have access to the kind of weapons that could make even a dent in a Galra battlecruiser.” Keith stands there, jaw set. “We need Voltron,” says Shiro. “We need the red lion, and we need you, Keith.”

 

“I know,” says Keith, eyes downcast. “But it’s been… a while.”

 

Shiro eyes him. “How long is a while, exactly?”

 

Keith meets his eyes. “Three years.” He tilts his head. “Three and a half. Give or take”

 

“Keith, that’s- really bad for you.” Even on suppressants, it’s best to have a heat at _least_ every five months. Heats themselves are more impractical than uncomfortable, but denying basic biology is always going to have certain repercussions.

 

“Yeah, well I didn’t think I’d be off in space for a year,” says Keith, which, yeah. Shiro’s been there. “So I guess I wasn’t thinking too hard about it.”

 

There’s a pause, in which neither of them knows what to say. Then, Shiro looks back to his coordinates. He sighs, rubs at his temple. “Give me a moment to… to think about this.”

 

Abruptly, like a train rattling off it’s track, Keith says: “We could cut down the time.”

 

Shiro turns. They stare at each other.

 

“Of my heat,” Keith elaborates.

 

There’s a certain set to his shoulders, like he’s a half-second away from abandoning this conversation entirely.

 

It’s logical. It’s- God, there’s no denying the pragmatism.

 

But Keith has already made too many sacrifices for this war. This doesn’t have to be another one.

 

“No,” says Shiro decisively, angling his body away from Keith, away from the slight wave of a negative emotion in the midst of the drifting heat-scent. “We can make this work,” he says, because he has to. “I’ll contact Pidge and see if we can send out a safe transmission to rebel forces. One that won’t be interrupted. We can organise, supply them with weapons. Maybe they can hold the Galra off long enough-”

 

“That’s too much of a risk.”

 

Keith’s distress at rejection is palpable and burnt-sour at the back of Shiro’s nose. There’s real, tense anger in the set of his shoulders.

 

“Keith-”

 

“ _No_.” Serious, with a fire behind his eyes, in his clenched fists. “We can’t risk the deaths of _who knows_ how many rebel fighters, just because you don’t want to fuck me!”

 

The vulgarity hits him in the chest. Shiro closes his eyes, barely catches a breath.

 

“Go find Pidge,” he says, voice low, “ask her about contacting the rebels-”

 

“But-”

 

A deep breath. “Whatever course of action we take, it’s safest to contact the rebel forces first.” There’s a pause. God, Shiro hates that he can _taste_ the disappointment, the physical manifestation of his failure. “Go, Keith,” he says.

 

Keith leaves.

 

When the door slides shut behind him, Shiro touches the screen in front of him with shaking fingers, and gets back to work.

 

*

 

“What is _up_ with Keith, today?”

 

They’re sitting around the dinner table, while Hunk sets down tonight’s dinner. It’s a testament to team’s suppressed anxiousness over the upcoming operation that they have such a feast spread out in front of them. Hunk is a self-confessed stress baker.

 

“Uh, he’s going into heat?” says Lance, with a ringing, unsaid _duh_ hanging off the end of his sentence. He leans forward and spears a strange looking vegetable on the end of his fork-like utensil, and shoves it in his mouth. Muffled, he elaborates: “Plus, Keith is always moody as heck.”

 

Over the glowing Altean of her tablet, Pidge levels Lance with an unimpressed look. “Yeah, but it’s not just that. He came to talk to me earlier about contacting the Galra forces, and he seriously smelled like he was gonna murder someone.”

 

“Smelled?” questions Lance. “Oh, right. I forget you’re an alpha sometimes, dude.”

 

“Yeah, well I wish I wasn’t,” says Pidge, nose wrinkling, “because Keith smelled terrible.”

 

“Alright, that’s enough,” sighs Shiro, “let’s not talk about Keith while he’s not here.”

 

“So, you’re saying we should ask him about what’s been bothering him to his face,” says Pidge, adjusting her glasses a little too pointedly.

 

“No, I’m not saying that, either,” says Shiro, loading his plate so he doesn’t have to look at anyone. “I’m _saying_ -”

 

Keith walks in, and Shiro nearly chokes on the scent.

 

“See!” says Pidge, nose wrinkled. There is obvious disgust on her face, but Shiro is having a far different experience. The needy, bitter scent of a distressed omega calls out to his whole body.

 

 _Protect_ , Shiro’s instincts scream, _protect, protect, protect._  

 

There’s an empty seat next to Shiro, but Keith walks around to sit next to Lance. It’s all eyes on him, and he notices, after a moment.

 

“ _What_.” Short, sharp.

 

“Keith, my dude,” greets Hunk, with a well-meaning kind of forced cheerfulness. Even Keith relaxes a little as a plate is set down in front of him. “Over here you will find some fun new kinds of vegetables, and in this big bowl we’ve got that soup that kind of tastes like savoury bananas.”

 

Keith perks up- that’s one of his favorites. “And finally,” presents Hunk, with a flourish, “that super weird preserved fish-type-thing with citrus and herbs.”

 

“Looks great, Hunk,” relents Keith, with a reluctant smile.

 

“Aw, thanks man,” says Hunk, genuinely pleased.

 

Shiro stabs a piece of ‘fish’, and shoves it into his mouth. Keith’s somewhat-soothed scent is somehow worse: heady and consuming. Shiro’s eye accidentally catches Keith’s smile, and he wants to _inhale_ him.

 

_Get a grip, officer._

 

He finishes his food, and stands up too quickly. The scrape of his chair has all eyes on him.

 

“Uh. You alright?” says Hunk, some kind of leaf mid-way to his mouth.

 

“Yes, I’m fine,” says Shiro, far too aware of Keith’s gaze on him. “I just have some work to catch up on.” For a moment, his eyes catch Keith’s. Defiant, that sharp gaze doesn’t waver. Shiro looks away first. “Thank you for the meal.”

 

He clears his throat, eyes down. The table, collectively, is not convinced.

 

“But Allura and Coran haven’t even turned up yet,” pipes up Lance. “What about team dinners?”

 

“Yeah,” echoes Hunk, “I even made little mouse meals.”

 

Shiro glances to where Hunk is pointing. Four tiny plates set up, piled with tiny mouse food. It’s adorable. Shiro swallows at the guilt.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We have a lot to plan for the coming battle.”

 

There’s a pause where they all look at him a little too closely, and then Lance says: “Alright. Do what you’ve gotta do.”

 

“I’ll see you all for training tomorrow,” Shiro says too stiffly, and then nods, and turns. He brushes past Allura and Coran coming in, and he wishes them a good meal.

 

Keith’s scent haunts him, even in the long hallway, but it’s not just that. It’s those clever fingers around the handle of his utensil, the curve of his smile, the various Keith-isms, each one subconscious and off-beat and lovely.

 

“Get a grip,” he tells himself quietly, and in the privacy of the hallway, presses his forehead into the cold castle wall.

 

Footsteps shake him out of it. He jolts, body snapping to attention as Keith approaches. There’s a determined set to those shoulders, but Keith’s gaze wavers when he reaches out for Shiro’s wrist, and Shiro lets him take it.

 

“I won’t-” starts Keith, low and a little tentative. “I won’t apologize for suggesting, uh, what I suggested. But I do want to apologise for what I said. Afterwards.” He clears his throat, hair falling over his forehead and hiding his eyes.

 

His thumb brushes over Shiro’s prosthetic wrist, and there’s the faintest echo of his touch. It shivers all the way up Shiro’s spine.

 

Shiro relents.

 

“Keith,” he says, and it comes out as more of a sigh. So close like this, Shiro is wrapped in that heat-scent - drifting and heady and stunning. “It’s alright,” he manages, “I’m sorry for snapping. You were just. Exploring all the options. It’s what a good strategist would do.”

 

He only has the slightest grip on what he’s saying. He swallows, lashes fluttering. Keith’s hand squeezes lightly at his metal wrist, and even that touch, barely felt - even that touch sends him spiralling.

 

“Is that-” breathes Shiro, low, barely mouthing the words, “is that really what you want?”

 

There’s the light shock of an inhale, and Keith’s grip on his wrist shifts so that his fingertips slide, tentative into the slight dip at the heel of Shiro’s palm.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

Shiro wavers, hand lifting to rest at Keith’s waist - out of bounds for an age. His hand cups the slight curve of that body, below the ribcage. He feels the shake and swoop of Keith’s breaths.

 

In turn, Keith’s hand drifts up his arm, palm warm and sure, fingers dipping slightly into the flesh of his shoulder. Breaths are exchanged. Keith sways forward, mouth parted. Drinking in Shiro’s scent.

 

 _Don’t kiss him_ , Shiro begs himself, _not yet_.

 

Instead, he cups Keith’s jaw, dips forward to tuck his nose just at the tendon of his neck. A deep, shuddering breath. A noise, sweet at the back of Keith’s throat. His fingers flex against Shiro’s arm.

 

Shiro could drown in this. In this scent. In this moment.

 

He exhales, rubs his thumb at the slight curve of Keith’s waist. Pulls back.

 

Keith watches him with liquid-dark eyes, mouth shining like he’s licked and bitten at his lips. Shiro clears his throat.

 

“Tomorrow,” he promises. He steps back, but there’s only the cold wall behind him. “We still have more planning to do, and Pidge will have made contact with the rebels by then.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, brow wrinkled. _Concentrate_. “And your heat hasn’t fully set in.”

 

He looks to Keith for confirmation, and there’s the shake of a head.

 

“Okay,” asserts Shiro, “good.” Their breathing hasn’t quite slowed. He wants to make himself step away, but he can’t manage it yet. “Tomorrow,” he repeats, like a man possessed. He sways forward the barest amount, gaze helpless on the curve of Keith’s throat. “ _God_ , you smell good.”

 

There’s a rough, wild sound at the back of Keith’s throat, and then he’s tilting forward, warm palms frantic on Shiro’s cheeks. Their mouths clash together, and Shiro lets himself be kissed, drinks in Keith’s tiny, shuddering breaths.

 

He can’t get enough of these shaky, shallow kisses. Sweet in their clumsiness, in their intensity.

 

But Shiro knows when he’s tipping over the edge, and so he sets his hands firmly on Keith’s shoulders and pulls back.

 

“Tomorrow,” he repeats, blinking at Keith’s mouth.

 

Keith nods, thumb brushing Shiro’s cheek, smearing his top lip. His eyes are dark, and a stunning shade of deep blue. Almost purple.

 

“Okay,” says Keith, quiet, rough. The barest hint of a grin, even with flushed cheeks. “I’m holding you to that.”

 

Shiro squeezes Keith’s wrists, nods as his hands fall away.

 

He can feel Keith’s gaze on him, heavy and expectant, all the way down the hallway.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags - a couple things have changed :)

“Keith,” Shiro says, because it’s been ten minutes and the red paladin hasn’t weighed in even once.

 

“Dude,” whispers Lance, “pay attention.”

 

Keith takes Lance’s pointy elbow to the side with a slow blink, and then elbows him sharply  back. “Shut _up_.”

 

“Can this be over?” pipes up Pidge from her seat on the couch, surrounded by tech. “It would be nice if this could be over.”

 

“I second that,” offers Hunk, with a tentative raise of his hand.

 

“Paladins,” interjects Allura, “this operation is of the highest importance. We have crucial intel from the rebel forces-”

 

“He’s doing it again!”

 

Allura pinches at the bridge of her nose in frustration, and Keith looks like he’s valiantly fighting a blush.

 

“ _Lance_ ,” he says, glaring. “Would you just _shut up_ already.”

 

“Alright, that’s enough,” sighs Shiro, “I need everyone to listen up, this is important information.”

 

There’s a chastised silence. And then Keith shifts in his seat.

 

“No! No- okay, no.” Pidge pinches her nose, voice a little muffled. “I can’t be in the same room with him,” she says, pointing dramatically, “when he’s like _this_.”

 

“Pidge,” warns Shiro.

 

“She’s got a point,” says Hunk, scratching at the back of his head, “I’m just a beta, and even for me it’s- kind of a lot.”

 

He’s referring to the bloom of heat-scent in the air, sweet and thick with need. The half-dazed expression on Keith’s face when he forgets where he is. The slight shifting in his seat like he can’t sit still, like he _wants_ something.

 

Shiro clears his throat, opens his mouth to get them all in check-

 

“I’ll go,” says Keith. He stands abruptly, glaring and a little sour with embarrassment. “Shiro can catch me up later.”

 

Hunk barely manages to stifle a giggle. Shiro can feel his face flood with heat and prays it doesn’t show. From the way Allura is eyeing him, it’s unsuccessful.

 

“Keith,” he manages, “you don’t have to leave-”

 

“Blease do,” says Pidge, through the tight grip on her nose.

 

“All due respect,” says Lance, cross legged on the couch. “But you’re not exactly keeping it together either, Shiro.”

 

“Lance, please,” he admonishes, but he’s too thrown by it to put any weight behind it. Instead, he mentally reviews the meeting so far. Remembers losing his train of thought in catching Keith’s eye, and repeating the same point three times while everyone looked on, lost. Remembers trailing off, stumbling over his words.

 

Allura gentles him back to the moment. “Shiro,” she says, a hand on his shoulder. And it looks like it pains her slightly to admit it, but: “Lance does have a point.”

 

All eyes are on him, waiting for a reaction.

 

“Fine,” Shiro nods stiffly. “Keith, you can go.”

 

Keith nods. He leaves the room a little too quickly.

 

The moment he’s gone, Pidge lets go of her nose and takse a big, dramatic lungful of air. Before she can open her mouth to speak, Shiro rounds on the rest of them.

 

“I know this isn’t exactly standard procedure,” he says, fighting the urge to massage his temples, “but as challenging as this is for us, it’s even harder on Keith.” He levels them with a look. “I know I’ve said this a lot, but this mission could be a turning point in our fight against Zarkon, and we have to pull through as a _team_. We bring the fight to those Garla posts in three days. That’s not a lot of time, but if we pull through and support each other, it will be enough.”

 

The team looks suitably chastised. Lance and Hunk have both sunk down a little in their seats.

 

Shiro takes a slow, steadying breath. “Unfortunately, Keith and I will be absent for- well, the next few days. So,” he swallows, blinking at the wall for a moment, “so, ah.” He gathers himself. “Allura will be taking the lead on this one.”

 

“Rebel groups are positioned here, here, and on this moon, here,” explains Allura, stepping up to the hologram with complete authority. “Their ranks are mostly…”

 

Shiro lets himself zone out, standing perfectly to attention. He’d made an incredibly uncomfortable briefing before breakfast this morning, where he’d explained the situation. Lance had promptly gone bright red, Hunk had hidden his face, and Pidge had tried to play dead, but Allura and Coran had been a naive blessing. While Keith and Shiro had both stood there, matching shades of flushed, the two Alteans had made bland, well-meaning enquiries into earth practices and basic biology.

 

 _Humans have secondary genders_ , Shiro had explained, the words clinical enough to be soothing, _omegas are child-bearing, and experience somewhat intense periods of fertility on a semi-regular monthly cycle._

 

_And Keith is an omega?_

 

 _Yes_ , he’d said, _Keith is an omega._

 

But the term feels archaic, when it comes to Keith.

 

Keith, with his whipcord strength. His endless, stunning drive to achieve the close-to-impossible. Laugh as rare and sweet as a summer thunderstorm, and just as striking.

 

Shiro’s attraction runs deep and undeniable. And he’s tried. God, he’s tried to deny it.

 

But then Keith will pin him to the training mat with a hot breath in his ear, or take down an alien three times his size through sheer power of will. Or even more dangerous, when all that wild strength goes soft and off-gaurd. When he lets himself-

 

“Lunch time!”

 

Coran pops into the room with a platter of appetizers. It’s a far cry from goo, but they’re all a little too alien looking for Shiro’s taste - that is, apart from the addition of toothpicks in each strange-smelling blob - an Earth invention that Coran had been _thrilled_ to discover a few weeks ago, courtesy of Hunk.

 

Shiro lets himself come back to reality as the paladins groan and stretch around him, muttering about battle plans and the length of the meeting.

 

“Lunchtime already?” he remarks absently, following them all out the door.

 

Lance shoots him an odd look. “Yeah, we were in that meeting for _forever_. Do you guys know about bullet points? I feel like Allura just read me the dictionary like six whole times.” Allura sweeps past, jaw set, and Lance changes his tune. “Not that I minded! I’d listen to your voice all day, Princess!”

 

“Oh man,” says Hunk, as Allura stomps out of sight, “she is really not into you.”

 

“She’ll come around,” says Lance, chest puffed with fake confidence. He puts on a little too much swagger and almost swings into the wall.

 

“You’re so suave, Lance,” says Pidge, in monotone.

 

“Shut up,” retorts Lance, something close to a whine. He diverts attention away from his failures: “Hey, Shiro. Shouldn’t you be with Keith?”

 

Shiro hesitates a half-step, thrown off his rhythm. “He’s missing lunch. I’ll bring him a plate,” he says.

 

“Good idea,” says Hunk, nodding sagely, “keep his strength up.”

 

Shiro can feel the warmth sweep over his face.

 

“Oh my god,” mouths Pidge.

 

“Oh my god,” echoes Hunk, panicked, “I didn’t mean-”

 

Incredulous, Shiro eyes him with a hot blush on his cheeks. “What could you possibly have-”

 

“I don’t _know!”_ Hunk is noticeably flushed, and Lance has fallen into step with Pidge, both of them watching the scene unfold with wide, slightly-crazed eyes.

 

There’s not much as far as entertainment goes on this ship, and embarrassed as he is, Shiro can’t really begrudge them this.

 

“Can we just drop this,” groans Hunk, ducking his red face behind his hands.

 

“Is that you calling in a favour?” grins Shiro, slowly. “Do I owe you one?”

 

Hunk stops, right at the turn in the hallway. He turns a furrowed brow on Shiro. “Seriously?”

 

“What _did_ you mean, Hunk?” says Shiro, with just the slightest tilt of his head.

 

“Yeah,” pipes up Lance, “what _did_ you mean, Hunk?”

 

“Yeah,” echoes Pidge, “what _did_ -”

 

“Fine!” Hunk yells, throwing his hands up in defeat, “fine, yes. I am calling in this favour, even though it in _no way_ compares to what I did for you earlier.”

 

Shiro laughs, and goes to make him and Keith a plate.

 

*

 

The truth is that this is more than a little terrifying.

 

The truth is that Shiro has no idea what he’s doing.

 

Well, he knows sex. He knows how to fuck. What he doesn’t know, is how to touch Keith without it being more. More than Keith wants. More than he needs.

 

So Shiro stands outside Keith’s door with two plates balanced on his arm and a knock burning in his knuckles, and a hesitation so intense that he’s barely breathing.

 

The whole hallway smells of it. Smells like sex and want, and sweet as anything. Smells like Keith.

 

And then there’s a moan, muffled through the door. And the sound of his name.

 

“Shiro?”

 

A thick swallow - he almost drops the plates. He clears his throat, not trusting himself to speak for a moment.

 

“Yeah,” he manages, “it’s me.”

 

He can’t hear much through the door, but a few seconds later it slides open.

 

The scent sweeps over him, through him, like the wreckage of a tidal wave. Something like arousal bursts open low in his stomach, but far more raw, far more instinctual.

 

“You brought me food,” says Keith, standing in the doorway with a flush down his bare chest, and a swollen mouth, his pupils blown liquid and dark. His hair is a wreck, and there’s a wild, frantic aura to him. He looks, in all honesty, like he’s been fucked hard and raw in the bushes and wants to be taken for another round or two. Or five.

 

“I- what?” rasps Shiro, and then glances at the plates in his hands, white-knuckled. “Oh.”

 

He’s distracted by the only item of clothing that Keith is wearing - a pair of boxers twisted at the waist like he’d pulled them up just to answer the door. Like he’d had them pushed down around his thighs to touch himself, couldn’t even wait to get them all the way off.

 

Keith’s flushed chest rises and falls with exertion.

 

Shiro tries to think of something to say that’s not - _let me suck your cock_ \- because it’s right there, a hard imprint against the thin fabric of Keith’s underwear. And the scent of heat and slick and want is rolling off him in waves, and Shiro wants to get on his knees and treat him _right_.

 

“You missed lunch,” is what he says, instead.

 

Something flashes across Keith’s expression too quick to catch, and then he reaches out and yanks Shiro into the room by the front of his shirt. The door shuts as Shiro stumbles inside, and then Keith has him pressed up against it with a fistful of black fabric and hungry, lost look in his eyes.

 

He searches Shiro’s face for something, mouth parted, smelling sweet as a goddamn fairytale.

 

“Tell me you’re sure,” he breathes, and Shiro could barely tell him his own name if he had to. But Keith shakes him a little, a hand still fisted in his shirt. “Tell me, Shiro.”

 

He finds his voice like the eye of a storm. “I’m sure,” he says, “are- are you?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” rasps Keith, and then he’s up on his toes with a rough, sweet noise. Kissing desperate at Shiro’s mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders.

 

It takes a moment, but Shiro kisses back - welcomes the roll of Keith’s tongue, the soft groan as Keith’s body presses up against him. There’s the slight, hot press of an erection at his hip, and Shiro’s lashes flutter at the feeling that runs through him like liquid mercury in response.

 

A strong forearm hooks around the back of his neck, and Keith presses up further against him, kissing like the push and pull of a dangerous tide. Messy and wet and consuming, and Shiro lets it pull him under.

 

“Put the fucking plates down,” mouths Keith, breath hot and damp on Shiro’s skin. Frustration sinks into his tone, “Shiro, come on and _touch me_.”

 

Shiro stares at him, dazed for a moment at the expression on Keith’s face. Then he fumbles the plates onto the dresser next to the door. They settle with a precarious, rocking noise.

 

A pause, where their breathing is far too loud.

 

Mouth parted, Keith raises his eyebrows at Shiro’s immobility.

 

“Are you in this? Shiro, you gotta tell me-”

 

“Yes,” nods Shiro, eyes on Keith’s wet mouth, “yeah, I am.”

 

He steps forward, cups a hand at the back of Keith’s head. Fingers winding through dark curls as Shiro tips forward to pull their bodies together, to kiss that plush bottom lip.

 

Keith moans, full body and rich, and melts against him. It’s honestly intoxicating, and when Shiro brushes his knuckles down Keith’s bare chest there’s a shiver, and a sudden fumbling towards his collar.

 

“Take it off,” pants Keith, “take all of it off.”

 

His belt is to the floor with a clatter. His vest falls open around his waist, and then Keith is rucking up the line of his undershirt, touching his hips, his sides.

 

“This, too,” pushes Keith, a question implied in his slight hesitation.

 

“If you want,” says Shiro. He tilts into Keith’s kisses, cautioning between messy breaths: “I can put it back on.”

 

Keith ignores him. He tugs it up and casts it to the side, and then his eyes scan over Shiro’s bare skin, quick and analytical.

 

“They really fucked you up,” he says, after a moment, and then he glances up to meet Shiro's eyes.

 

“Yeah,” says Shiro, and huffs a relieved laugh at Keith’s wry tone, “yeah, they really did.”

 

And that’s that.

 

They fall into bed, and Shiro is hyperaware of every touch, every smooth, overheated plane of Keith’s body. He reaches up for Keith’s face, brushes sweat-damp hair back where it flops over his forehead. Kisses him until Keith is shaking on top of him, fingers digging desperate into Shiro’s skin.

 

“I need-” he gasps, mouth hot and plush with the press of Shiro’s. His lashes are fluttering half-lidded and lovely over dark-violet eyes. “You should fuck me. Now.”

 

Shiro nods, dazed, hands roaming over too-warm skin. Keith is moving on top of him, uncharacteristically clumsy, shifting around on his knees to throw his boxers over the side of the bed, and just like that Shiro can smell him - hot and dizzy and stunning.

 

Shiro can’t help it. He growls, the sound emerging from somewhere deep and rough.

 

“Now,” chants Keith, voice raspy and demanding. He flops down on the bed and pulls Shiro on top of him, frantic hands and a flush dipping down below his collarbones. “Now, now, _now_.”

 

In the haze of it all, there’s a moment where Keith settles in the bed sheets, and Shiro gets to look. Gets to take in those strong shoulders, those peaked nipples, the strength of his thighs, and the dark rasp of curls trailing down from a tucked little belly button. Then his cock - flushed and dripping, and so hard it must _ache_.

 

If Shiro thought he’d wanted to suck Keith _before_ … well.

 

Keith’s thighs part, the light hairs shining with slick at the delicate inner curves. His hole is slightly puffy - God, he really had been fingering himself when Shiro knocked - and he smells stunning.

 

He must stare a moment too long, because- “Shiro, am I gonna have to do this myself?” rasps Keith, fingers digging into the muscle of his own thigh like he’s seconds away from pressing them inside.

 

“No,” says Shiro, bending to kiss the heartbeat-thud of his chest. “No, sorry. I’ve got you.”

 

 _You’re a dream_ , he thinks to say, just as his mouth leaves Keith’s skin, but it’s the pheromones in the air driving him heat-stupid.

 

He sits up and gets a hand around himself, pumps his cock. There’s a pulse-beat in his ears as he smooths his hand down the strength of Keith’s thigh, shifts forward on his knees to press the head against a dripping cunt. There must be something lost in his expression, because Keith bites at his wet bottom lip, and then reaches out.

 

“Fuck me,” he says, reaching down for a vice-grip on Shiro’s wrist, coaxing his cock to press just the slightest bit further. “It’s okay,” he promises, sweet and rough with need, “it’s okay, I want it.”

 

So, Shiro fills him up.

 

Fucks in smooth and steady, and watches as Keith claps a hand over his mouth and _sobs_.

 

It’s tight, and so incredibly hot with Keith shifting in the sheets like he can’t get it deep enough.

 

“Is that good?” Shiro breathes, crowding forward, elbows on either side of Keith’s head in the pillows. He draws his hips back at Keith’s frantic nod, and fucks in again, putting more power behind it.

 

Keith writhes, heels digging into the bed so his body arches, head thrown back. A wrecked noise behind the seal of his hand, a flush all the way down to his tight little nipples. Shiro drags a flat tongue over the straining tendons at his throat, opens his swollen lips against it,  and _sucks_.

 

“Fuck!” Keith sobs, muffled through his hand, and Shiro gathers him up, gets his hands under the curve of his back, one sliding up to cup the nape of his neck. There’s an obscene wet sound with every deep thrust, the slap of skin on skin.

 

He breathes against Keith’s skin, the dizzy scent sweeping through him with every inhale. He presses his forehead to the pillow, mouth dragging against Keith’s cheek. Low, quiet: “Hard? Like this?”

 

Keith nods, hand flying up to grab the meat of Shiro’s shoulder as the pace picks up. His other hand winds in Shiro’s hair, drawing him closer so that their bodies are pressed together.

 

“Like that,” groans Keith, his whole body rocking with the force of Shiro’s thrusts. Eyes squeezed shut, he grips Shiro’s shoulder. “Oh, _fuck_.”

 

He’s beautiful. Head thrown back, teeth bared in pleasure. Shiro holds him by that trim waist and feels like maybe he could ward off the whole universe with Keith in his arms.

 

Messy kisses over Keith’s shoulder, the dip of his collarbones. His fingers slip down the arch of a back to press above a slick hole, to feel the stretch of it.

 

“ _Shiro_ ,” is a gasp from kiss-swollen lips, “ _Shiro_.” Keith’s breaths are shattering and breaking into hitched moans and sobs. His fingers are wound so tight in Shiro’s hair that it starts to sting.

 

“Breathe,” Shiro reminds him. He pulls back to get a good look at his face. “Keith, breathe.”

 

Keith sucks in a lungful of air, mouth dropped open. He moans, digs blunt nails into Shiro’s shoulder. “S’intense,” he manages.

 

His body shakes in Shiro’s arms, his cunt pulsing in little, needy spasms. Shiro has slick on his thighs, and Keith is wild with it.

 

There’s the press of heels at his back, urging him closer, and Shiro thrusts in with a groan, tugging at his own bottom lip with his teeth. The slap of his hips is loud over the sound of Keith’s half-hitched moans. Caught up in the pace of it, Shiro dips down and seals his teeth at Keith’s collarbone. Keith arches in his arms, and there’s a sudden wave of sweet-scent. Unbelievably, Keith tightens, and there’s a sweet little whimper. And then he’s tensing, coming all over his stomach.

 

A knee knocks hard into his side as Keith’s body shakes through it, but Shiro fucks him gently over the crest of it, watches the force of it roll over Keith’s face.

 

When it slows, Shiro pushes up on his palms to see the mess of it on Keith’s skin, the smudges of it on his own hips where they were pressed together. Keith’s cock is shiny with pre between his thighs, and a bead of come drips from his slit.

 

Shiro licks his lips before he realises he’s done it, and then glances up to take in Keith’s expression.

 

It’s something close to lightning-struck. Soft and stunning and wide-eyed.

 

Buried thick and deep inside, Shiro’s cock gives a twitch, and Keith moans quietly, their eyes still locked.

 

On instinct, Shiro’s hips rock forward, and Keith moans again.

 

“I think-” says Keith, still getting his breath back, “I think I really want your knot.”

 

“God, Keith,” says Shiro.

 

Keith manages a smile at Shiro’s dazed expression, almost dopey in the wake of his orgasm.

 

“That was so good,” he says, “you feel so good in me.” There’s a little wriggle where he fits his body further on Shiro’s cock, hole flexing around the thick of it. His fingers sneak down to press down around the stretched rim. “I wanna feel that around your knot.”

 

Shiro swallows.

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and Keith grins.

 

*

 

Keith shifts in the sheets, leg propped over Shiro’s shoulder, while Shiro has a good grip just below his knee.

 

“I can come fine without it,” Keith huffs, rubbing his palm over his own shoulder.

 

“Patience…” Shiro cautions.

 

Keith sighs, “...yields focus.” There’s a second round of come cooling at his hip, and his cunt is still giving hot little pulses around Shiro’s cock. Liquid pleasure soothes up and down Shiro’s spine at the feeling, and he drops an absent-minded kiss on Keith’s calf, eyes fixed on the slow rock of his length in and out of that slick hole. “How do you know I even have one?” complains Keith.

 

Shiro levels him with a look. “Because I paid attention in freshman biology.” He tilts his hips up a little. “And if you’re like _every other_ omega, you’ll have one.”

 

“I don’t like your tone,” says Keith. He lets out a low breath, and then reaches between his thighs to palm loosely at his cock. “But I guess this isn’t bad.”

 

The first wave of heat has cooled just enough for them to slow the pace somewhat. But it’s only a matter of time before Keith will need more, and when that happens, Shiro is going to make him yell for it.

 

As it stands, Keith is lovely to look at with a sex-flush down his chest, messy with his own come. His hair is even more of an inkspill wreck against the white pillow, and through the slight sheen of sweat, he’s gone pliant with the daze of two orgasms.

 

Shiro sighs in pleasure, pressing a hand just at Keith’s lower stomach. Loose knuckles brush over his skin as Keith plays with his cock.

 

“Fuck, your hands are big,” sighs Keith, half-lidded gaze on the spread of Shiro’s fingers over his skin. Shiro’s hand takes up most of the span of Keith’s trim little waist. Slightly startled, Shiro strokes over the warm skin, thumb playing with the rasp of hair trailing downward.

 

Keith’s hole pulses slick in response, hot and velvet-smooth inside. Shiro presses down a little on Keith’s stomach, shifts his knees slightly-

 

“ _Ah!_ ”

 

Grinning with success, Shiro lets his cock nudge up against that spot again.

 

Keith’s back arches. “ _Holy Shit_.”

 

“Told you,” shrugs Shiro, allowing himself to be a little smug, while Keith’s eyes just about roll back into his head.

 

Keith’s hole drools slick, the sheet soaked with it as Shiro strokes his thigh in soothing sweeps of his palm, focused on that little bundle of nerves.

 

“We should probably shift over a little,” says Shiro, when the wet spot on the bed grows a little ridiculous.

 

“ _No,_ ” gasps Keith, hand flying out to grab Shiro’s wrist before he can pull out. “No just- keep doing this.”

 

Shiro stifles a laugh, smiling down at Keith’s pleasure-dazed expression for a moment or two.

 

“Alright,” he relents, but shifts to pull out anyway. “Just trust me,” he soothes, ignoring Keith’s pained little noise of betrayal.

 

He gets his hands under Keith’s thighs, and shifts them around until they’re not in the wet spot on the bed any more. They really should have put down a towel, thinks Shiro, assessing the situation. But Keith is pretty flexible.

 

Shiro wants to bite at the muscles of Keith’s thighs once he’s in position, letting Shiro press them back until his knees are up around his ears.

 

“Huh,” says Keith, considering. “I guess this is practical.” He hooks strong forearms under his knees, utterly unashamed of his body on display like this.

 

 _I love you_ , Shiro thinks, and then beats it down. Smothers that thought back into submission.

 

“Comfortable?” he says instead, Keith’s body splayed between his knees.

 

“Yeah,” says Keith, toes curling absently. His head shifts in the pillow, a persistent flush still high on his cheekbones.

 

“Good,” says Shiro, and then touches his fingertips to the used rim of Keith’s hole, his metal hand resting a light hold on Keith’s waist.

 

“You’re gonna-?” Keith frowns at him, hair a mess over his forehead. “What’s the point?”

 

Shiro breaks eye contact, shifting his knees in the sheets to get comfortable.

 

“We’ve got some time,” he says, “before the heat sets in again properly.” He glances up to take in Keith’s expression, the pads of his fingers stroking over a puffy rim. There’s a slight glaze of pleasure to Keith’s expression, just from that touch. “We don’t have to.”

 

The truth is, Shiro is reasonably sure that this is Keith’s first time. As far as sexual partners go, there are a total of seven people on this ship, and there’s not exactly a lot of time to be sexually experimental in the middle of an intergalactic war.

 

“What about you?” says Keith.

 

Shiro’s brow furrows as he plays with the give of Keith’s rim, touching his fingertips just inside that smooth heat. “What about me?”

 

“You still haven’t knotted me yet,” points out Keith.

 

Shiro sight, gaze sliding away. “It takes a little longer… these days,” he admits, hating that he sound like an old man with a rattling bottle of viagra.

 

Keith eyes him, and then sighs. His knees spread slightly wider in acknowledgement. “Whatever floats your boat.”

 

Shiro laughs, wry, and presses in finally, two fingers dripping in slick. There’s a quiet, sweet noise at the back of Keith’s throat when Shiro’s thumb strokes at the crease of his thigh, as a third finger pushes in.

 

A little _ha_ noise when Shiro finds that little bundle of nerves and slides gentle fingers over it. Keith’s rim is hot and slick around his knuckles, needy in the little throbs of muscle contraction, like he’s trying to suck Shiro’s fingers in further.

 

“Oh, God,” rasps Keith, shifting in the sheets, fingers digging into his thighs. His cock rises and dips against his stomach. He sighs out Shiro’s name, bites at his own plush bottom lip. Shiro crowds over his body, braces an arm on the mattress.

 

“See?” he says, smiling a little smugly at Keith’s overwhelmed expression.

 

Keith bites at his knuckles, eyes on the tense and push of Shiro’s forearm above where his fingers are working. “Yeah,” he says, “don’t look so pleased with yourself, I just- _fuck_.”

 

It doesn’t take long to get Keith panting, to have him strung out and hiccupping moans with every fuck of Shiro’s fingers past his rim.

 

“Fuck me,” he begs, spreading out on the bed with his heels dug into the mattress. He rides Shiro’s hand, hips off the bed, abs tensing. “Fuck. Shiro, fuck me.”

 

“Come, and I’ll knot you,” Shiro promises, breathless. Pros of having a prosthetic arm - his wrist isn’t tired from the punishing pace, and the slick sounds of Keith’s hole around his fingers rise with the sound of his moans.

 

Keith groans, presses his face into Shiro’s throat for gulping inhales. His body undulates in Shiro’s grasp, his hole sucking Shiro’s three fingers in. A helpless gasp when a fourth breaches his entrance, past the knuckles. It’s almost Shiro’s whole hand fucked up inside him, and Keith sobs.

 

“I’m so fucking _loud_ ,” he gasps, head flung back in the pillows. He fights back a moan until it comes out strangled and wet, wrecked over a kiss-bitten mouth.

 

“It’s okay,” Shiro promises, forehead pressed into the muscle of Keith’s damp shoulder, his cock dragging wet against a tensing thigh. The slick, messy noises of his hand are obscene. “It’s okay,” he breathes against the rise and fall of Keith’s collarbones, “shh, just let it go.”

 

Keith yells, body tight as a bowstring, hole pulsing around Shiro’s knuckles. The strength of his thighs at Shiro’s ribcage is bruising, but Shiro holds him through it, hand still moving, drenched up to his wrist in slick.

 

His voice is rough and wrecked as he comes, tears squeezing from tight-shut eyes. “ _Gnh_ , oh shi-  _iit_ ,” he sobs, and Shiro breathes him in, drowns in the heady sweet of his scent.

 

“That’s it,” soothes Shiro, dragging kisses down the flush of Keith’s neck. He slows his strokes as Keith’s breaths calm, as the hiccupping little moans subside with the aftershocks. “There you go.”

 

“I think I just saw God,” Keith pants, still shaking.

 

“You said that the first time you ate Waffle House,” manages Shiro, forehead pressed to Keith’s sweaty skin.

 

Keith chokes on a laugh, and Shiro looks up to see him dragging a hand over the dazed, giddy expression on his face.

 

His eyes catch on Shiro, and his smile goes a little soft. “I- thanks,” he says.

 

Shiro swallows, coaxes up a smile. “My pleasure,” he says, and means it. But Keith snorts, pushes damp hair off his forehead.

 

There’s a quiet grunt when Shiro’s finger slip free, and Keith does an adorable little double take at the slick on Shiro’s knuckles. “Did you _fist_ me?”

 

Shiro blinks down at him in shock. “What? No- no.” He laughs. “Just four,” he promises, wiping them off on a far corner of the sheets.

 

Keith’s gaze seems caught on Shiro’s fingers, expression skeptical. “How big is a knot?”

 

The question throws Shiro off guard. “Oh,” he says, “uh. Well.”

 

He parts his thighs, sitting up a little so Keith can see him. He reaches out and takes Keith’s wrist, guiding him to wrap a hand around the base of his cock. Those lovely fingers give a curious little squeeze, and Shiro bites back a slightly embarrassing sound.

 

“You’re big,” says Keith, blunt as ever. His eyes are fixed on the length, and Shiro feels a blush sweep through him.

 

“A little bigger than average, yeah,” Shiro acknowledges, and Keith glance up at him, amused. “But, here,” he says, “you can feel if you squeeze down-”

 

He covers Keith’s hand with his, pulsing down with just enough pressure-

 

“Oh,” says Keith, sitting up a little in curiosity. Crosslegged, he squeezes down with that pressure again, knuckles flexing under Shiro’s grip. It’s strange to have that intense focus on him, especially in this setting, and Shiro kind of wants to laugh. Mostly though, it’s just hot.

 

The thick of his knot begins to build slightly under the pulse of Keith’s hand on him, and Keith’s gaze goes a little hungry.

 

“How much bigger does it get?” he asks, voice rough.

 

“I-” he exhales heavily, accidentally rocking into Keith’s grip. “I haven’t measured. But the diameter increases by an inch or so, I’d guess.”

 

“Fuck,” says Keith, shifting slightly, “why is that such a turn on?”

 

Shiro huffs a laugh, shaky as Keith fists loosely over his length. “Biology?”

 

Keith hums in vague agreement, eyes on the glide of Shiro’s cock. He shifts again, that same little movement that he’d been told off for in the meeting, earlier.

 

With just the slightest hesitation, he leans forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the left of Shiro’s navel, hand still fisting his cock, slightly slick with the drip of precome. Shiro’s breath shakes out of him as Keith’s mouth moves across his skin, landing another kiss to his hip.

 

“I really want you to knot me,” says Keith, low against Shiro’s skin. “Can we try?” His breath fans over the wet press of his mouth, and Shiro winds a clean hand in his hair, cups the back of his head.

 

“You’re good for another round?” he checks, barely swallowing something like a growl in the back of his throat.

 

“Yeah,” nods Keith, forehead pressed to Shiro’s hip. “It’s crazy, I feel just- I _want_ it.”

 

Shiro’s fingers tighten in dark curls, and he strokes through them to alleviate the instinct to _tug_.

 

Keith glances up at him through thick eyelashes, mouth parted around the tease of a smile. “You did promise,” he says.

 

 _How_ , Shiro thinks blindly, something like a fight or flight response kicking in at the sight of that expression, _how are you this stunning?_

 

“I did,” he manages, fighting the heat of a blush. He strokes through Keith’s wild hair. “I think I’m ready.”

 

Keith grins.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to cut it off! Uni is absolutely kicking my ass right now, and I haven't had a huge amount of time to work on this, so I figured I'd update it and not keep you guys hanging. 
> 
> \--> It's marked complete, but there are a couple options. I could add another chapter and that would literally just be more porn, ending on a pretty lighthearted note. Or, I could work on the plan I have for the third instalment of this series, which would involve like. Way more (pining) angst. But also more porn. So... whatever floats your boat I guess? Let me know what you think!
> 
> In the meantime, here's my [tumblr](https://vers-shiro.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Also, please leave comments if you like this, you people absolutely make my day every time :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was always going to do a third chapter for this, it just took a while to get around to it. So here's a little deleted scene - the first time Keith takes Shrio's knot. Plus a little more backstory, as requested by an anon a while back :))

They wash up quickly in the bathroom sink. 

 

Shiro soaps his hands to the wrists as Keith bends to splash water on his flushed cheeks, the sweaty back of his neck, under his arms. It’s only when Keith’s face is lost in a towel for a moment that Shiro risks a glance over, taking in the lines of his bare body, the irreverence in the way he stands, shakes his hair out, towels down. 

 

Beautiful. 

 

It’s like Keith needs the constant physical contact, though. Brushes of their shoulders as they lean in turns to cup their hands under the sink. The quiet touch of Keith’s bare calf against his as they shift, the warm lines of their bodies as Keith reaches across his to take the soap. 

 

The line between sexual and non-sexual is jagged, now. 

 

The line between friendship and  _ want  _ has always been blurred. 

 

And the soundtrack to the rest of his life - every single noise that Keith made under his hands, his mouth, his cock.

 

_ You are never going to get over this _ , he tells himself, and when he meets his own eyes briefly in the mirror, he realises it’s been inevitable. He’s known from the moment Keith walked into his life, fierce and strange and strong.  _ You are never ever going to get over this. _

 

A pop of a joint breaks him out of his thoughts, and he looks to see a wide-eyed Keith doing a tricep stretch, arm bent behind his head. It’s enough to startle a laugh out of the both of them, and Keith shakes out his shoulder with a quiet smile. 

 

Shiro dries his hands on a hanging towel, and then slips behind Keith to dig his thumb into the knot of a shoulder.

 

“Cramps?” he says. 

 

Keith shakes his head, his neck bowing. 

 

“Just tight,” he says. There’s a breathy grunt when Shio gets his fingers into the upper trapezius, Keith bracing himself on the sink. Another when Shiro puts more of his core strength into it, deep tissue, brow furrowed in concentration.

 

It’s steady breathing, the occasional weighted exhale as Shiro’s hands find the right spot. Slowly, the tight muscle of Keith’s shoulders relaxes smooth under his fingers. The strength and give of Keith’s body under his hands is enough to make him breathless, and in the mirror there’s pleasure in the softness of Keith’s mouth, the flutter of his lashes. 

 

Swallowing, Shiro smooths a hand down his spine, down to rest at his hip. It’s a breath, the realisation that the air is full of heat-scent. That Keith’s cheeks are flushed, even though his head hasn’t lifted. 

 

The pull is gravitational - Shiro’s mouth to Keith’s skin. He kisses Keith’s shoulder, brushes his lips at the nape of Keith’s neck. 

 

“Better?” Shiro asks. He meets Keith’s eyes in the mirror, watches his adam's apple bob as he swallows. 

 

“You think you’re pretty smooth, huh?” Keith says, leaning into Shiro’s touch. 

 

“What?” 

 

“I don’t know,” says Keith, “I feel like I saw this in a movie.” When Shiro doesn’t answer, he elaborates. “Like massage… sex.”

 

It takes a moment, but Shiro can’t help the smile. He turns his focus to the lines of Keith’s shoulders to soften the reaction. “A movie, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” says Keith, but when Shiro meets his eyes in the mirror he’s smiling. “Shut up.”

 

Shiro huffs a laugh, standing easy with his hands on Keith’s hips. His fingertips find their way over the dark hair trailing up to Keith’s tucked navel. Mouth resting on Keith’s shoulder, he strokes through the sketched-ink lines of it, over the rise and fall of Keith’s breath. 

 

“You don’t have to... seduce me, you know,” Keith says. “I’m already-- I already asked.” 

 

His body is a warm, steady line against Shiro’s front, and it hurts to pull away. 

 

“Sorry,” Shiro says. He shoots a smile, rubs his hands at Keith’s hips. “Got carried away.”

 

Keith watches him for a moment in the mirror, expression difficult to decipher. Then he gives a little shake of his head, hair falling in his eyes. 

 

“It’s okay,” he says. 

 

His weight shifts, the muscles of his body shifting with it. Foot to foot, his hips moving under Shiro’s hands. 

 

“Can you fuck me, now?” Keith says.

 

Shiro swallows at the ache in his chest, feels it down to his palms and his joints. He nods. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ve got you.” 

 

He reaches down to get ahold of his cock, strokes himself to hardness, but it won’t happen. Frustration builds, aches. He ducks his head as he moves his hand over himself, the weight of Keith’s gaze heavy on his skin.

 

Their bodies brush as Keith turns, warm and steady in Shiro’s space. He reaches up to take Shiro’s face in his hands and guides their mouths together in a kiss. Shiro doesn’t let himself sink into it like he had the others. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro says quietly into the kiss. 

 

Keith lets out a frustrated little sigh, hands on either side of Shiro’s jaw, and pulls him down further. He hooks an arm around Shiro’s shoulders like he had only hours ago for the first time in his room. His mouth is insistent under Shiro’s, his thumb pressing into Shiro’s cheek. 

 

When Shiro still doesn’t relax into it, Keith pulls back, looks at him with a furrowed brow and a tight mouth.

 

“I want you to get carried away,” Keith says, finally. Like the phrasing is clumsy in his mouth. “I meant it’s okay to- to touch me like that.” He swallows at Shiro’s silence. Softens. “I want you to.”

 

Shiro looks at him. His strange eyes and his messy hair and his kiss-coloured mouth. 

 

“You shouldn’t be uncomfortable,” says Shiro.

 

Keith’s eyes narrow, just the slightest bit. “Neither should you,” he says. 

 

It’s an impasse, and with Keith’s hands on him, Shiro is weak. 

 

There’s a heat flush on Keith’s skin, a restlessness to his body. With careful touches, Shiro turns him until they’re back-to-front in the same position as before, draws him close. Shiro’s half-hard cock settles at the small of Keith’s back, just before the curve of his ass. 

 

Like a sigh, Keith relaxes into his body, lets Shiro wrap steady arms around him. 

 

“Yeah,” Keith sighs, gripping at Shiro’s bicep, shifting back against the press of his cock. 

 

They make a strange pair in the mirror - Shiro big and scarred, Keith strong and lithe and fiercely beautiful in his arms. 

 

“Come on,” Keith says, quiet encouragement as he shifts their bodies together, as his head tips back against Shiro’s shoulder. “Come on, I want you.”

 

The ‘ _ I want you to fuck me _ ’ stays unsaid, but Shiro burns with the shorter phrase anyway, gets a hand at Keith’s hip with an arm across his body and presses himself into the warmth of Keith’s skin. 

 

They rock together like that until Shiro gets hard, until a bead of precome dampens the light hairs at the small of Keith’s back and there’s a warm little moan at the back of Keith’s throat. 

 

“Shiro,” he says, and in the mirror there’s a high flush, furrowed brows. All heat and want, and all gathered in Shiro’s arms. 

 

Shiro nods, smooths his hand up Keith’s side to thumb at a nipple and watch his jaw flex with it. When he reaches between their bodies, he finds Keith’s inner thighs slick, and when he pushes the curve of Keith’s cheeks apart, he finds the plush hot of his hole still wet and open. 

 

“Bend over,” he says quietly, presses a guiding hand at the curve of Keith’s back. Keith goes easily, bends over the sink braced on his elbows like he’s half-presenting. Quietly desperate for it as his head bows forward and he arches slightly into Shiro’s touch. 

 

Keith almost shakes when Shiro barely presses in, just rubs the head of his cock through the slick. Shiro can feel it under his hand, the shiver of his muscles. 

 

He hadn’t meant to make Keith wait so long, and he tries to make up for time now. Presses in slow and deep. Keith makes a breathless sound like he’s been aching for it, braces himself against the sink and works himself back against it. 

 

He’s so hot and open around the thick of Shiro’s cock. The muscles of his back roll as he moves. Shiro can only catch pieces of his face in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, sweat-damp hair. 

 

“Yeah,” Keith says, when Shiro bottoms out inside him, hips pressed flush to the curve of his ass. He raises his head and there’s a blissed expression on his face, eyes closed.  _ Stunning. _

 

Shiro bites down on his praises, and pulls out slow. His thumbs press twin dips into the curve of Keith’s ass, and Shiro bends forward to kiss the dip between his shoulder blades, pushing back in again with one smooth thrust. 

 

“ _ Ah _ ,” Keith breathes, knuckles white on the edge of the sink, his back arching a little to get the right angle, his hole flexing around Shiro’s length. He’s greedy-hot, enough to make Shiro’s knees weak. 

 

“Fuck me,” Keith tells him, “fuck me.”

 

And Shiro does. The knot at his base begins to swell as they move together, Keith working his hips back in fluid little rocking motions, trying to get Shiro’s cock to the hilt every time. 

 

“Like that?” Shiro asks, lips gliding over Keith’s skin as he speaks.

 

“Mm,” Keith says, head lolled to the side in pleasure, “harder.” And Shiro presses kisses to the exposed line of his neck.

 

A hand braced at Keith’s shoulder, another strong at his hip. When he stands up, he sees the lines of his own body in the mirror. Bicep flexing as he holds Keith up, a breath as he digs his fingers into loosened muscle. There’s the set line of his jaw as he pulls out, the slight flush on his cheeks, his chest. 

 

It’s easier to recentre his focus on Keith, to have the curve of Keith’s back arch with the pressure at his shoulder, to have him cry out with the first hard thrust. 

 

“Like that,” Keith begs, thighs flexing for balance as he takes it again and again, eyes dark and heavy-lidded with pleasure in the mirror when they meet Shiro’s. “Oh,  _ fuck _ .”

 

He’s loose enough from Shiro’s fingers earlier to make it messy, getting slick on Shiro’s thighs. Their breaths echo against the bathroom walls, the wet slap of hips, Keith’s rough, punched-out noises. 

 

His head is up with Shiro’s grip on his shoulder. It’s easy to guide his body up, wrap a hand around his chest instead. Shiro changes his grip, getting a hand at Keith’s shoulder. 

 

Their bodies fit together, sweat-damp. Keith lets out a helpless moan when Shiro’s face buries in his neck, when Shiro puts his tongue on the line of his neck. It’s something animal in the way he kisses Keith’s skin over the scattered beat of a pulse, breathes in his scent and groans out loud. 

 

“Oh,” Keith moans, and Shiro can feel it in the lift and sigh of Keith’s chest, “ _ oh _ .”

 

Shiro can’t see the movements, but he feels Keith tighten up when one hand dips between Keith’s thighs, the other still braced at the sink. Shiro still has a grip on Keith’s shoulder, and he feels the movement of Keith’s hand as an echo in the roll of muscle, hears him come apart with broken breaths and a messy, throaty sound. 

 

“I’ve got you,” Shiro says low against his skin, “I’ve got you.”

 

In the mirror, Keith’s mouth is dropped open, his brow pinched. Shiro kisses the flush of his cheek, open-mouthed, lets Keith tilt to press their mouths messy together as Keith comes. 

 

Shiro fucks him through it, kisses the bare curve of his shoulder. 

 

“Fuck.” Keith’s breath hitches like a sob over the sink, and he shifts in Shiro’s hold like it’s too much, so Shiro slows. 

 

“Don’t stop,” Keith tells him, “just-”

 

Shiro nods against his skin, drags his nose over the first knob of his spine. With the pant of their breaths, Shiro slows. He fucks deep and steady, rocking them together with kisses pressed to Keith’s sweaty temple, the bared line of his throat. 

 

“Feels good,” Keith tells him, breathless, low. 

 

“Yeah?” Shiro whispers. His tongue catches the bow of Keith’s top lip, his hand cupping the sharp line of Keith’s jaw. 

 

“Really, really good,” Keith breathes, and a hand still works between his legs. He’s overstimulated - the pained little wrinkle in his brow is a giveaway, the almost-hurt little breathless noises he keeps letting out. 

 

But Keith arches into Shiro’s touch, clenches around his cock when it gets deep like he’s desperate not to let it go.

 

“Go- _ d _ ,” Keith hiccups, rising on his toes with the slow-build  _ deep _ grind of Shiro’s hips. 

 

It gets Shiro hot all over, molten with the expression on Keith’s face and the way Keith’s bare legs brush his, skin on skin. 

 

Shiro lets go of the sink, forcing Keith to grip the edge with both hands. There’s come gleaming across Keith’s knuckles, and Shiro’s mouth waters at the sight, at the scent in the air. 

 

He puts his mouth to good use, teeth grazing the back of Keith’s neck. It sparks a whine, and Keith’s fingers go white knuckled on the rim of the sink, and Shiro touches him, sweeps his hands over the planes of his body, the flex of his thighs, rise and fall of his breaths. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro manages. It’s all he can voice with the sweat-damp scent of Keith’s hair, the pulse quick beat of his body, wrapped up in Shiro’s arms, tight on his cock. 

 

“Touch me,” Keith begs, “Shiro-”

 

Shiro does as he’s told, takes Keith’s cock in hand where it’s heavy and hard. Keith lets out a stuttered breath, and Shiro lets go of his shoulder to put fingers under his jaw and turn him until they’re kissing. 

 

It’s heady to touch Keith like this, to be so desperate for a person. He palms over the messy head of Keith’s cock, kisses the moan from Keith’s lips and works him over in smooth, steady strokes that have Keith’s mouth dropped open. Shiro gives a suck to Keith’s bottom lip, noses at the flush on his cheeks, watches his face change up close. 

 

“Again?” Shiro murmurs, and Keith nods. 

 

It’s a slow crest, with Shiro just rolling his hips steady and deep, until sweat sticks down their backs and Keith flexes and drips in his hand. The rise of Keith’s breaths, the hitch of his moans. Shiro presses his own groan into the sweat-damp roll of a shoulder. 

 

It takes effort to meet Keith’s eyes in the mirror. Shiro knows there’s a sex-flush across the bridge of his own nose under the knotted tissue of his scar. Knows his hair is falling messy over his forehead. 

 

But Keith’s eyes are dark and his stare is intense, only softened by the waves of pleasure.

 

Shiro swallows at the rise of an unnamed emotion in his throat, at the way Keith’s gaze breaks him. 

 

“Come on,” he murmurs, mouth to Keith’s skin, “come on.”

 

“ _ Ah _ ,  _ Shiro _ ,” Keith manages, tendons in his neck standing out as he shakes and comes all over Shiro’s knuckles and the bathroom floor, teeth bared, never once losing eye contact.

 

Something drops through Shiro at the call of his name, at the weight of Keith’s gaze on him. He grabs Keith’s hip with messy fingers, shuts his eyes tight and presses his face into the curve of Keith’s neck. 

 

“I’m close,” he says, and it comes out small and rough. 

 

“Oh shit,” Keith swears, reaching back with one hand to get a grip on Shiro’s hair, still shaking from his orgasm. The grip pulls him closer still. “Please,” Keith begs, and his voice is rough and sweet and enough to make Shiro’s heart ache, “fuck, I want it so bad.”

 

Shiro moans, helpless. Lost to Keith’s body and his voice and his fierce, chaotic warmth. 

 

“Do you want-?” Shiro asks.

 

“Knot me,” Keith begs, cuts him off with and tightens up around his cock at just the thought. “You said-  _ please _ .”

 

The base of his cock is filling, thick enough that it takes an extra push of his hips to fuck the whole length inside the heat of Keith’s body. 

 

“Just- squeeze it,” Shiro breathes, and Keith does as he’s told, tightening up around the base in needy little pulses. “Fuck-” Shiro swears quietly, muscles in his legs shaking at the slow build of pleasure. 

 

“Good?” Keith asks him, and Shiro nods, brow furrowed. 

 

It’s an effort to stay still, to stay buried inside, but it’s easier on Keith this way, the clutch of his body sucking him in. 

 

“ _ Mm _ \- oh, it’s big,” Keith breathes, shifting his hips back on it in jerky little movements. “ _ Ah _ ,  _ shit _ .”

 

“ _ Keith _ , gonna-” Shiro warns, but heat swings through him and he’s already over the wave. The first pulse of come has Keith crying out as Shiro’s cock flexes, buried deep and hot. 

 

“Oh, fuck yes,” Keith groans, brings his wrist to his mouth and sinks his teeth into it, muffles the broken noise he makes when Shiro ruts against him, helpless. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro moans, “ _ Keith _ ,” and when he looks in the mirror at his own wrecked expression, he finds Keith’s eyes on him instead. 

 

“It’s so much,” gasps Keith, reaching down to press his own hand to the base of his stomach like he’ll be able to feel it. 

 

“Sorry,” says Shiro, “sorry.” He hasn’t been able to- hasn’t wanted to touch himself in so long. 

 

“Don’t you dare apologise, Shiro,” rasps Keith, and his gaze is steady in the mirror. His hand reaches back to grab Shiro’s hand, tangles their fingers together at the heartbeat thump of his chest. 

 

And Shiro holds on tight, thumbs over the crescent print of teeth on Keith’s skin. Kisses every inch of sweat-sheened skin he can get his mouth on. 

 

When the pulses finally stop, his knees almost give out, and there’s a pinking bruise at the base of Keith’s neck. A teenager’s faux-mating mark. Shiro flushes hot at the sight, part embarrassment, part  _ want _ , and is thankful that Keith won’t catch sight of it. 

 

When they finally Shift, Keith lets out a little mewl at the tug of the knot at his rim. It must be overwhelming, and when Keith shifts to half-stand, his cock is still full and heavy between his thighs. 

 

“Now what?” Keith huffs, and it’s a good question. 

 

Still panting slightly, Shiro straightens up, cool air over his chest. He looks around the room. 

 

“Ah,” he says, not without humour, “could’ve picked a better place or position for it.”

 

“I liked it,” Keith says, and when Shiro meets his eyes, they’re nothing but honest. 

 

Shiro swallows, smooths his clean hand over Keith’s back. “Well, let’s see if I can pull out.”

 

“It still feels pretty big,” Keith says, and Shiro can see and feel the swollen pink of his hole working around it. 

 

Shiro lets out a shaky breath, runs his tongue over his teeth. 

 

“Just relax for me,” he says, puts a hand at the base of Keith’s spine. “If it hurts-”

 

“Just do it,” Keith says, braced over the sink. 

 

It comes out slow. Keith stretched wide around it. Low noises in his throat. 

 

“God,” Shiro sighs, watching the push and gasp of it, realises that Keith’s hand is working between his legs again, the slick sounds of his cock as he stretches around the thick of Shiro’s dick. 

 

“Uhn-  _ fuck _ ,” Keith swears, and comes for a third time, shoulders hunched, flexing around Shiro’s cock with the force of it, and it comes out easily.   

 

Shiro stands there panting, dazed at the sight of his come dripping down Keith’s thigh to the point that he can barely form a coherent thought. He opens his mouth. 

 

“You’ve got one hell of a refractory period,” he says. 

 

Keith snorts. “It’s the heat,” he says, and his voice comes out stuck in places, rough in his throat. He straightens up, stretches with a wince and a groan. “Everything’s so sensitive, it’s crazy.”

 

Shiro knows that- logically, he knows that. But his head is too light, and he steps back a little to let his shoulder blades thump against the cool wall. He lowers himself on unsteady legs to sit on the floor. 

 

Keith joins him easily, lets out a rough breath and a wince as he sits. 

 

“Feeling okay?” Shiro asks him. Their shoulders are touching. He feels the rise and fall when Keith sighs. 

 

“Mhm,” Keith hums. His knees are spread, feet planted on the floor. He’s dripping come, uncaring, and Shiro wants to laugh or fall apart at what that does to him. What Keith does to him. “You?” Keith asks.

 

He’s flushed, hair in his eyes and sticking up at odd angles. Shiro wants to kiss him again, but that’s a years-old impulse, a years-old ache, and he pushes it aside. 

 

“Just fine,” Shiro says. 

 

They used to go hiking in the desert on their breaks, when the Garrison was almost empty and they had no one but each other for a home. They’d start in the early morning dark and hike until the sun came up, until they were sweating in the half-shade of a rock formation. Used to sit shoulder to shoulder just like this and look out over the dunes. 

 

The parallel almost gets a laugh out of him, and Keith’s mouth twists like he’s sharing the thought. 

 

“Hey,” Keith says, and it his voice is still a little rough, “remember when you busted your ankle in the middle of the desert and I had to carry you back-”

 

It was a half-carry, but Shiro will give it to him. Sweating and in pain, Shiro had looped his arm over Keith’s shoulder and they’d limped all the way back to the Garrison like the idiots they were. 

 

“Three-legged race,” Shiro says, and Keith grins, laughs. 

 

They’re miles up in space, light years from Earth. Shiro knows he might never see that sprawling desert again. 

 

But he’s thought that before, and proved himself wrong. 

 

“Hey, Shiro?” Keith asks. “Thanks for- all of this.”

 

That’s care, and trust in the lilt of Keith’s tone, and it’s more than enough. 

 

“Of course,” he says. 

 

Keith nods, tilting his head back against the smooth wall.

 

And they sit there a while longer, shoulder to shoulder in the phantom desert heat, on the cool bathroom floor.

 

_ You are never going to get over this _ , Shiro thinks, feels it down to the ache of his bones. 

 

But he’s got Keith at his side, and it’s more than enough. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There probably won't be an update to space song for a few more weeks at least, but hopefully this tides you over a little :) People have told me that they enjoy rereading this series and I can't even say how happy that makes me. Hopefully this little extra bit adds to the experience!! big love to all of you <33
> 
> p.s. feel free to drop a comment if you enjoyed because i have about six different essays to write for school, and it would brighten my day to stare at something other than mla citations (:


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